


I Covet Thee

by Doodsxd



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (I hope so), (sort of), Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Body Worship, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is Steve's wet dream, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Desire, Gun Kink, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Oblivious Clint, POV Steve Rogers, Poetic, Sexy, Sexy Bucky, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers is drooling on his friend, Top Bucky Barnes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodsxd/pseuds/Doodsxd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way he looked at Steve like he meant safety and home, the sway of his body while he went up on the stairs, the way his back was always confidently straight and he was never ashamed of being half-naked, or about filling up room by sitting on the couch and warming up Steve's side by casually brushing his body on the other's one, in a way that made him blush and hide in minutes, feeling feverish, and why the hell didn't anyone already write a fucking poem about this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Covet Thee

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You're a Soldier, I'm a Warzone: Arms Race](https://archiveofourown.org/works/177517) by [abundantlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer). 



> Hello! 
> 
> First of all, I have no beta and my mother language isn't english, so, I hope you forgive and point out any mistakes I've made so I can correct them. 
> 
> Second of all, I know the structure of this work is based on another work - I don't know if it's a random text, a poem or a fanfic, so, I'm sorry. If you know which one is it, please do tell me and I will make the disclaimer. I already searched around but found nothing, but I'm making it clear that I know it was inspired, so, please don't sue me. 
> 
> The 7º paragraph is heavily inspired on "You're a Soldier, I'm a Warzone: Arms Race" 36º paragraph, to the point it's almost, almost a copy. I don't know if I can do it, considering I'm making the disclaimer and I'm not familiar with USA's copyrights rules, so, if I can't, do tell me and I'll change it, and apologize. If it offends someone (abundantlyqueer, specially), I'm sorry. It's just that that paragraph, specifically, inspired my whole work, and I kind of wanted to redo it somehow.   
> It's a wonderful piece, by the way, so please check it out, if you like the series. 
> 
> Finally, I do hope you enjoy.

Steve was pretty sure there should be a poem for this. 

He was there, in the training room, with Natasha, Bucky and Clint. Hot summer, wife-beater and sweats, he was laughing and positioning his rifle and saying something about betting with the two spies, she with her guns, he with his bow. It was a gorgeous modification of an original SR25, with needle precision and black sleek body. He saw Clint was too excited and distracted, but he knew Natasha already noticed it. 

But, why would he be to blame, after all? Bucky's muscles danced under his skin in a way they only did with someone who  _knew_ what to do with their bodies by mere practice, lightly golden colored because of the time he spent in the park or the pool, all broad shoulders and easy smile and there  _should_ be a poem for this. 

The way he smiled, cherry lips against white lined teeth that just  _asked_ to be licked, just like the trails that the droplets of sweat left on his chest that had just a fine line of hair from his belly button to the waistband of his jeans and, God forbid him - perhaps  _beyond that_ \- and  _fuck,_ there  _should_ be a poem for all of this.  

The way his arms moved, powerful, making him solid, the metal one manly like a sleeve tattoo, the shape of his strong buttocks, the "v" of his hipbones that made Steve's hands itch to touch, his mouth ache to ravish, and the angelic tone of his blue eyes and brown curls that said  _tease,_ and God,  _oh God,_ there should be a  _poem_ for this.  

The way he looked at Steve like he meant safety and  _home,_ the sway of his body while he went up on the stairs, the way his back was always confidently straight and he was never ashamed of being half-naked, or about filling up room by sitting on the couch and warming up Steve's side by casually brushing his body on the other's one, in a way that made him blush and hide in minutes, feeling feverish, and  _why the hell_ didn't anyone already write a fucking  _poem_ about  _this?_  

And  _now,_ now he was devouring the sight of his friend’s forehead creases, and his precision was  _perfect_ , as was his expression, eyes narrowed towards the bull’s eye, the soft exhale he lets out when he pulls the trigger, the complete concentration he drowns in while he aims and the second his shoulders twist and push to absorb the rifle’s recoil, the pure  _power_ that those soft movements delivered. The  _power_ into those man’s  _hands._ The power to kill Captain America. The power to  _own_ him,  _hurt_ him,  _dominate_ him. The power he had towards the blonde’s body and soul.  

_There’s gotta be a poem about this._  

“Are you going to tell him?” Her voice snapped him out of his daydream. He bit his lip.  

“Tell who what?” He dismissed, eyes on the target again.  

She didn’t even blink. “Are you going to tell him?” Natasha asked again, and looked to Bucky. “Because if you don’t, I will.” 

He was pale as thin paper then. “You wouldn’t.” 

She simply turned her back do Captain America, as could only do someone who was as  _Romanov_ as her. “ _Watch me.”_  

He simply went to the gym's locker and took a long cold shower, trying to banish from his body a heat that wasn’t coming from the hot weather, but from within. Every thought he spared with Bucky was a warm wave from his chest to the end of his limbs, his skin all sensitive and itchy.  

And then Bucky came out from a cabin, looking like fucking Michelangelo’s David, hips wrapped around a towel, all wet from his hair, that was dripping, and he could swear he heard  _angel’s bells_ ringing in his ears.  

The fucker smiled to him.  

“Are you ok, punk?” He asked, throwing his dirty clothes into the basket. “You look a little flushed.” 

The blonde blinked. “Yeah… yeah, I’m ok.”  _Please, God, please…_  

Bucky looked suspicious while Steve made his way out of the bathroom. “Seriously, are you ok?” He tried again.  

“Yes, I’m alright,  _James._ ” It came from nowhere, from nothing, from the fire that burned and consumed him from inside, it came from memories of drunk conversations they had about what aroused them and from that  _need_ to dive in, head first, and reach out to everything he wanted with both hands unashamedly.  

The shiver was real. He saw it. Briefly parted lips, a flicker of eyelashes, and that was it. He would hire a writer, because the world simply couldn’t  _miss_ to have a poem about  _this_.  

___

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for stopping by.


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